Doctors Told Me To Go Gluten-Free. I Became a Glutton in Argentina Instead.

Ten weeks of pure pleasure (and occasional pain).

This isn’t just a story of a girl gone wild. This is about a girl gone glutton. It begins in February, when she arrives to Argentina holy yet hungry. It ends in April, when she leaves bursting at the seams, begging for vegetable redemption.

What happened in between has been caught on camera. Uncensored. Untamed. Unrestricted. A girl decides to devour everything and anything for ten wickedly wonderful weeks. And she documents it in-between bites.

Do you smell that that? The photo feast is served.

Girl Gone Glutton: A Photo Essay From Argentina

Before Buenos Aires, I change my life. I stop drinking. I start swimming at sunrise. I sleep eight hours. I avoid drugs except for supplements. I eat beans, oatmeal, gluten-free bread. After six hours in Buenos Aires, I am reaching for a cold glass of vino tinto. I am fists full of ribeye, bread, butter. Beaming.

I couldn’t not do this. I couldn’t arrive to Argentina, the sacred land of meat and wine, and be duck-taped with self-denial. That would be travel treason. For me, experiencing a foreign country is all about feasting without fear. But this trip is a bit different. It’s not a quick and dirty ten-day getaway. I’m here for ten weeks and I’ve arrived in the best shape of my adult life. Can my body—and my health—handle a two-and-a-half month feast? 

Part of me worries about weight gain. But most of me craves souvenirs I can savor. So for the next ten weeks, Healthy Tatiana becomes Hungry Tatiana. Her biggest thrills? Over-ordering. Chasing cravings. Sharing plates to maximize sampling potential.

Armed with an open mind and an open appetite, she falls in love with mollejas, grilled sweetbreads drizzled in lime and provoleta, a ubiquitous appetizer that doubles as the biggest glow-up known to man. Provolone, a seemingly boring deli cheese becomes beautiful when served grilled and crispy. 

But it’s not hard to fall for anything grilled here. After all, Argentina is home to the grill-gasm. Meat takes a new meaning when it’s charred over charcoal, seasoned solely with salt, and served jugoso: medium rare, melt-in-your-mouth magic. One bite and your eyes involuntarily close. You convulse. You reach carnivorous utopia. 

Hungry Tatiana can’t get enough. She proceeds to eat more steak than she ever has in her entire meat-loving life. For once, it’s affordable! With the coveted American dollar, ordering steak is not only doable here, but encouraged. The Argentinian economy needs it. The food industry needs it. The soul needs it. 

But Hungry Tatiana isn’t  beholden to the beef. In Ushuaia, she’ll gladly send it on seafood, grasping a live centolla before guzzling it down with an ice cold craft beer and a “paella for the table.” 

And of course, she’s also down with dulce de leche! In Cordobá, Hungry Tatiana gets introduced to happy hour’s rival: factura hour. AKA pre-dinner pastry and mate time. At 6pm, she gets plastered—in powdered sugar.

Hungry Tatiana will also pound the pasta. It’d be impossible not to; Argentina is full of Italian influence. This homemade garganelli with pork ragu, mushrooms, and truffle oil is so wildly delicious she sheds a tear. 

Here’s the thing: these are happy, in-food-heaven tears. But they’re also Uh oh tears. Hungry Tatiana is a rebel. And she’s realizing the potential risk she’s taking. The year before, Tatiana got some of the worst news of her bread-and-beer-loving youth: you’re highly sensitive to gluten. Stay the hell away from it. (Her doctor’s loose words.) 

Yet she finds herself unable to avoid the temptation of medialunas, tiny, sweet croissants served toasted. Coupled with a cappuccino, they make up her new morning ritual. In normal life, Healthy Tatiana doesn’t eat breakfast; she fasts. In Argentina life, Hungry Tatiana eats breakfast—fast. At first, she relishes in this rebellion of routine. But then the gluten guilt starts setting in.

As both Hungry and Healthy Tatiana, I have felt conflicted. On one hand, gluten is mildly poisonous to me. On the other, gluten is God’s gift to mankind. Empanadas, pasta, bread, eternal bliss. The common denominator? Gluten. After a food sensitivity test, my doctor told me it’d be in my best interest to avoid it. It was just a recommendation, but I was still horrified. As a live-to-eat-everything person, I was the antithesis of “gluten-free” or “picky.” But my doctor’s words haunted me, so I started moving my habits in a healthier direction. And it felt amazing. But living like that in one of the most delicious countries of my life wouldn’t be living at all. It’d be eating with fear. It’d be eating in a way that wasn’t authentic to my true, hungry self.

I decide to let myself live and feast for the rest of my trip. I can survive a few months of sensitivity. So I go for it. Alfajores? Sure! Choripan? Sure! Turn $1 jamon y queso empanadas into a habit? Sure! In honor of my empanada obsession, I do the closest thing to getting a tattoo without getting disowned: I buy empanada earrings. 

I try a lomito sandwich the size of my forearm. It’s loaded with lettuce, tomato, melted cheese, slices of steak and ham because why not? It’s lovely. And requires the unbuttoning of my pants. 

At this point, I’ve officially converted to the carbivore creed. There’s some form of bread at every meal. Like at midnight on a Monday, where we feast on a famous Buenos Aires pizza, empanadas, and more cheesy onion pizza.

Behold: the face of a glutton in pleasure—and pain. The food continues to be incredible—here, I’m eating a classic: milanesa, breaded beef cutlets served with sunny side up eggs and french fries. But the nonstop gluten, Malbec, and sleeping six hours max has me feeling exhausted, heavy, and…desperate for vegetables. 

So I begin to frequent the local produce stands that are all over Buenos Aires. 

In between the meals out, I cook some meals at home. Like brown rice lentil bowls. And oatmeal! And Israeli salad! I even order a veggie burger with a side salad during lunch one day!

But everything shifts when I hit the end of my trip. I have reached my last two weeks—and frankly, I don’t want to spend them eating nourishing bowls at home. I want to be chatting with silly empanada vendors, sending it on juicy steak, and embodying my friend Dillon’s motto from the end of his senior year of high school: “Fuck it, last two weeks.” It’s the anthem for a grand finale; a free, fearless finish. When the days are numbered, you can’t hold back.You live it up. You run wild. You say, Fuck it, last two weeks. 

In the last two weeks, vices are welcomed in through the front door. On a Friday on a rooftop, I sip negronis, smoke my friend’s hand-rolled cigarettes, and eat cheese-covered fainá, an insanely delicious chickpea flatbread that might be better than pizza.

I take myself on solo dinner dates. I try everything from chef’s tasting menus to local-only parrillas where I eat some of the best ojo de bifes–ribeyes–of my trip. I drink wine, campari, fernet. I chug cappuccinos. I go to underground house parties, dancing til the DJs stop playing and waking up five hours later to make it to lunch reservations. At every solo meal, I make a new friend—from couples to loners—feasting their way across Argentina. Some have only just arrived, and I’m startled by how nostalgic I feel for their beginnings. That buzz of a fresh arrival and a desire to taste Buenos Aires at full flavor blast. Somehow, I find myself missing the trip I’m still on. 

The last few days are swollen. My pants are tight and my skin stretched. I keep eating anyway. Mostly because I know this is the end of my glutton fantasy. And I want to grieve it. At night, I walk around the city eating empanadas de bondiola and pistachio ice cream. I’m not even hungry anymore but I keep my mouth and eyes open. I want to pack as much goodness into my goodbye as possible. Before Buenos Aires, I had never met a city I loved as much as New York. Nothing ever compared—except here. 

For my final meal, I am served an overcooked steak for the very first time. The symbolism—and sleep deprivation—brings me to giggles alone at the table. I am overcooked. Overdone. Overstuffed. I eat the ojo de bife with a glass of Malbec and a side of fries, bread, and provoleta. As I feast for the last time, I draw a girl flying solo on the paper tablecloth. I start crying. After two years of pandemic sheltering, I was finally set free here. And I’ve had one of the most fun, fulfilling travel experiences I’ve ever had. I don’t want to leave this beautiful, wild life but I’m ready to return to real life. Back home, there’s sleep, routine, balance. And for the first time, that sounds really, really delicious.

• Going vegetarian: After nonstop steak, I needed a detox. At the beginning of May, I gave up meat for a week—a truly terrifying feat—and felt all the better for it. I’ve also been opting for water over wine and solitude over socialization. This is officially my (veggie-loaded) vacation from my vacation.

• Prioritizing my health: I did not post a newsletter two weeks ago. When I got back to the USA, I felt truly burnt out. So I decided to do what horrified me: I missed a self-imposed deadline. But I showed love for my body (and mind) in the process—and that honestly felt like the braver, more necessary thing to do. Now I’m back to re-building my balanced creative practice and balanced life in general. I’m more than ready to make up for missed time.

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Tatiana Gallardo is in a month of retreat. She’s drawing and eating oatmeal every day. She’s missing Argentina. And she’s finally laying low.